


Louder Than Words

by fluffsik



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avoxes, Hunger Games AU, M/M, Physical Disability, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffsik/pseuds/fluffsik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taekwoon never expected to find sanctuary in this noisy hell.  Hunger Games AU - Tribute Taekwoon/Avox Wonsik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by wonsynth's [crossover prompt](http://homoerotixx.tumblr.com/post/113029863367/10s-wontaek-2). Poster art by wonsynth.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

Noise, noise, noise, noise-- Nothing but noise, blaring fanfares and empty chatter, endless endless _endless_ until Taekwoon was sure he would go mad from it before they even had a chance to corral him in the arena. If he couldn’t catch a breath soon, he was sure he’d kill someone before he was licensed for it. See how much they’d cheer _then_.

He didn’t let himself think of how much he missed the quiet. He did, once, and the gentle rustle of tree branches filled his mind and he could almost _taste_ the tang of pine on his tongue; tears pricked at his eyes and he glowered ten times as fierce to hide them. When trying out the switches and buttons in his room summoned a hyper-realistic (yet infuriatingly fake) image of forests all around him, he threw the remote across the room hard enough to dent the wall.

The only respite was their training, and even then only if he refused to let himself remember what he was training for. He worked until each breath burned and his knuckles bled and his mentor scolded him for making his hands ugly. The stylists gave him soft gloves decked with rhinestones to hide them. He clenched his fists against the fleece lining until they shook.

It wasn’t until the fourth day that, by some miracle, he found himself alone at the apartment. Taekwoon had been holed up in his room as usual, braced against the inevitable interruptions, but when half an hour crept by and no one barged in to drag him off to a party or press conference or parade, he grew suspicious. Sliding from his perch beside the (fake) window, Taekwoon padded to the door and waved a hand over the sensor. 

The door slid open, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Silence. Stale, yes, and lifeless, nothing like the rich and earthy quiet back home (don’t think of it, don’t think of it), but he closed his eyes and drank it like water. 

Taekwoon stalked over to one of the couches (why did they have so many?) and sprawled out, taking up as much room as he could. Long-limbed as he was, he barely took up two-thirds of its length, but threw a pillow or three onto the floor anyway before flopping back down and heaving a loud sigh. And then another, louder. The tension seeped out of him like poison leeched from a wound, but something stayed coiled hard and tight inside his ribcage. He threw one arm over his eyes and with the other tossed another cushion to the floor. A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth as he imagined the fuss everyone would throw when they saw their precious furniture so messy.

The rest of the cushions were, sadly, out of reach; Taekwoon shifted, trying to stretch one arm down for another without having to sit up, until he was half-falling off the couch from the effort. With a grunt of annoyance he reached for one that had already fallen to the floor and just tossed it further, watching idly as it flopped end over end across the immaculate carpet towards the immaculate wall--

\--To come to rest at the feet of a young man.

Taekwoon sat up with a jolt, swallowing the startled sound that threatened to leap from his throat. How long had he been standing there? How could he have missed him? Though to be fair his clothes were white (oddly simple to be found in the Capitol), the same as the wall, the same as the fluffy hair that swept low over his brow. In a world where every fashion choice clamored and screamed for attention, everything about this one was designed to blend in with the scenery. Taekwoon might have seen him before. Serving the table they gathered at every night, maybe? But if he had, he’d just been one more unwanted set of eyes to stare at him.

Annoyance that his time to himself was spoiled washed over any embarrassment Taekwoon may have felt. He frowned accusingly at the man’s face, challenging him to scold him for making a mess or order him away to some event. He caught his eyes for only a split second before the other’s were lowered; a chill ran down his spine as he saw a glimpse of the deadness he could feel eating through him reflected beneath the white fringe. 

“Didn’t see you there,” he mumbled, almost too quiet to even hear himself. But the eyes sharpened and widened, flicking back up to his before returning to the floor. The man’s hands tensed and turned one over the other--and then he was a statue again. 

The evening alone ruined, Taekwoon slid off the couch and stalked towards his room. He bristled at the whisper of movement behind him, but when he glanced back he wasn’t being followed as he’d feared; the servant had knelt to gather the pillows strewn across half the room. Taekwoon stifled a sigh. He hated the Capitol and everything in it, but making more pointless work for the servants didn’t help anything (that split second of hollowness unmasked in those eyes had nothing to do with it). He found himself crouched near the other, righting a fake potted plant he didn’t realize he’d tipped over earlier. Another glance at the servant caught his gaze again, but this time confusion and curiosity and gratitude shone back. This time Taekwoon was the first to look away.


	2. TWO

He learned what an Avox was the next day. 

Taekwoon thought he couldn’t be disgusted any more than he already was. He hated being wrong. 

He caught only snatches of the whispered conversation. Taekwoon always sat apart from the “alliance” that clumped together in the training sessions, repulsed by the idea of playing nice with people he’d only have to kill later, but as he strained to listen he wished for the first time his table was closer to theirs.

“What do you think yours did to deserve that?”

“Maybe she killed someone.”

“You should get her to show you how she did it.” Nervous laughter.

He didn’t know whether to try to tune them out, or strain to hear more.

_Creepy,_ the muttered agreement drifted towards him.

A glimpse of shy eyes, too open and too wary all at once, flashed unbidden to his mind. They’d crinkled at the edges when Taekwoon thanked him for his help. “Creepy” would be the last way he’d describe it. Then again, that was his image too, now. Or at least his promotion team wanted it to be. It was too much to imagine he didn’t want to be here, wanted to be home with his family and see their faces unstreaked with the tears that drowned his last memory of them, so “creepy” it was-- Silent, unnerving, the ruthless Killer from the Forests. 

It had been hours before he returned to his chamber the night before. Setting the room in order took only a few moments, but when they were done Taekwoon suddenly realized he was no longer starving for the solitude of his room. He wasn’t sure why. The smile the white-haired boy had given before retreating to the wall again was furtive, but friendly, and though Taekwoon could feel his presence behind him as he slumped on the couch again, he still didn’t feel _watched (thousands of cold eyes blocked in a hundred bright colors, watching, staring, boring, peeling his skin back piece by piece)_. Maybe it was just those few seconds of working alongside someone without the crush of their expectations on his shoulders. Maybe he’d been trying so hard to be alone, he didn’t realize how lonely he was. 

He passed the time by tearing pages from a pad of paper left on the end table and folding them into elaborate shapes. They made a little line at the table’s edge--he was careful not to let any fall, or leave any scraps of paper on the immaculate floor. Neither of them moved for hours. It was...peaceful. And when the others’ return drove him back into his room (alcohol suddenly thick in the air, strange smells on their clothes), the four walls were more stifling than ever.

A peal of laughter drifted towards him from the other table. Taekwoon crammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and shoved his chair back with a screech before stalking off to destroy another punching bag.

That night, two avoxes waited on them at dinner, a boy and a girl, both with the same short white hair swept low over their foreheads. Neither were the one from last night. Taekwoon watched them all the same, vague, misplaced guilt churning in his stomach all the while, and when he caught one’s eyes by chance he smiled (lips stiff, unpracticed). She looked away, jaw tensing, and picked up another plate.

It wasn’t until nearly dawn when he saw the boy again. He hadn’t been able to escape the party that night, and all his scowling only earned him a “yes, now look that fierce for the cameras!” before he was dragged out the door. By the time he stumbled back into the apartment, he’d been a few camera flashes short of showing the partygoers a kind of _fierce_ they hadn’t bargained for. His features were set in a mask of barely-suppressed rage, which masked barely-suppressed panic. He barely registered the white-draped figure shadowed in the hall before his door slid shut behind him.

All was quiet again when it whirred open ten minutes later. Taekwoon stumbled back the way he came, heedless of his long limbs catching on the doorframe or knocking against the furniture, until he had flung himself face-first onto the couch. The dark room span. The rest was a blur; his head pounded and his stomach twisted and cramped until he found himself leaning over a bowl, grounded only by the warmth of a hand pressed against the back of his neck or smoothing his damp hair away from his face as his stomach emptied itself of god-knows-what they had served at the party that night. No wonder they had special rooms for this sort of thing at their feasts. He woke the next day, vowing to never eat or drink or _smell_ anything at one of those horrible parties again, and not quite certain how he ended up back in his own bed. The only thing he could remember was a glimpse of white hair in the thin light as his eyes drifted closed.

Taekwoon searched the faces waiting on them at breakfast until he found the one he was looking for--caught mid-glance looking back at him. His eyes were cautious, questioning. 

“I’m feeling better,” Taekwoon suddenly announced to the room at large. The conversation stilled and everyone exchanged confused glances. “Well…that’s good…” said his escort, glancing sidelong at his mentor. “I don’t remember you saying you were feeling ill.” But Taekwoon was back to his usual silent self, and hid his smirk behind a stony mask. He could practically see the wheels turning in their heads--what to do if their “fierce silent killer” image started sliding towards “quiet and occasionally spouts nonsense.” But behind them all the Avox beamed, only for a split-second before the smile was hidden behind a fist and lips were pressed to a thin line to force back a mask of his own.


	3. THREE

It was unwise to start this pattern. He knew he should be sleeping the night through, waking early to train alone. But each night he closed his eyes, ordering himself to _stay put this time_ , only to give in a moment later and fumble for the light switch. 

Each day that crept by was one day closer to the Games, after all, and it grew terribly easy to indulge himself.

The Avox had grown used to his new habit. The hallway was silent and shadowed, but he would always be there, silhouetted against the faint glow of the common area. It was just light enough to see him smile each time Taekwoon emerged from his room--small, barely visible in the dim light, but with the telltale crinkling around his eyes that almost had Taekwoon smiling back. But just as quickly the boy would look away, never holding his gaze for long, like one of the skittish squirrels from back home--hovering just out of reach in the branches in case you dropped food, but too afraid to come any closer.

Sometimes Taekwoon would just stretch out on the couch and let the noise the day crammed into his skull seep out of him, but more often than not he brought paper along and folded for hours on end. His fingers found their familiar rhythm, smoothing and creasing until a row of figures lined the table’s edge. A fish, a bird, a house. Taekwoon didn’t have to look up to know the Avox was watching his hands. He glanced up, and the other didn’t look away.

“Want to try?” Taekwoon heard himself say, voice rougher than he’d meant it. When was the last time he’d said a word kindly, or had reason to?

The boy’s brows flew up. A hand shot up to cover his mouth as his lips parted in surprise, but he leaned closer, even taking a step away from the wall. As he hesitated, Taekwoon held out a sheet of paper and sat motionless. 

For a long moment no one moved. Then suddenly the other beamed, face lighting up and eyes crinkling as he closed the gap between them. He took the scrap from his hands with a bowed head, and when Taekwoon patted the couch beside him, he didn’t hesitate to sit.

“Like this,” muttered Taekwoon.

His hands were clumsy at first. The first two scraps of paper were a lost cause, and Taekwoon crumpled them into a ball before slipping him a third. This time Taekwoon whispered his instructions slower, more precisely, pausing now and then to demonstrate even the simpler steps on his own. 

As he watched the other fumble with a particularly complicated fold he found his own hands moving, wrapping around the other’s to guide him through the step. The calloused fingers trembled faintly beneath his. Taekwoon shot him a glance (remembering the other trainees’ words, images of imprisonment and mutilation tumbling through his thoughts) and was relieved to see none of the fear he expected in his face. Instead it was set in the very picture of determined concentration, brow furrowed and lip between his teeth and--oddly--ears tinted a bright red that crept down towards his cheeks. 

Taekwoon didn’t realize he was staring until the boy grinned up at him, sheepish, as he set his first lopsided creation in the row next to the others. It looked more like a chicken than a swan, but Taekwoon just blinked at it once before muttering, “it’s good.” He held out another piece of paper, and the other beamed again (this time a fist covering his mouth first) before snatching it up. He leaned to point at one of the figures Taekwoon had made earlier--a pig, one of the more complicated ones-- and turned hopeful eyes back at him. 

The corner of Taekwoon’s mouth twitched up. “Let’s work up to that,” he whispered, and pointed to the tiny paper house instead. The boy just nodded quickly, his eyes bright and eager as they latched onto Taekwoon’s hands, waiting for the first step. 

It was more difficult than he thought it would be to keep his movements slow, the steps blurring together in his mind and fingers wanting to swiftly rush through the memorized patterns, but he kept each fold slow and deliberate before watching the other dutifully mirror it. As time went on his hands seemed to be shaking less, Taekwoon thought to himself, but never noticed when the jagged lump of ice in his own belly had melted.

\- - - 

The apartment seemed to take twice as long to quiet down the next night. Taekwoon could no longer use restlessness as an excuse--every muscle screamed with exhaustion after the day’s training, and yet he found himself fighting off sleep, straining to hear the sounds sifting through his closed door instead of trying to shut them out. He counted out the seconds in the stretches of silence in between. Finally satisfied, he threw off the covers and slipped to the door--

\--Only to bite back a shout as it slid open to reveal someone standing just on the other side. But the faint light from the common area glinted softly off white clothing and tufts of silver hair, and the stab of adrenaline faded. Taekwoon let out the breath he was holding. Before he could ask why he was there, the other glanced over his shoulder, rushed, shaky, and Taekwoon barely noticed the beckoning gesture before he turned away. Without a second thought he followed.

The two passed by their usual meeting place (since when had Taekwoon started thinking of it like that?), and the Avox paused to brush his fingers against his hand before turning towards a doorway. Taekwoon recognized the path to the rooftop as they climbed a winding, wrought-iron staircase. He’d only bothered to come up here once before. The seclusion was nice and the view would be nicer--if you were the sort of person who could look out over the Capitol’s nauseating grandeur without wanting to throw up. Taekwoon wasn’t.

But the lights sparkling a hundred different colors didn’t catch his eye this time. 

“Why are we…?” Taekwoon glanced at the other, puzzled. The Axox just ducked his head, the apologetic look crossing his face making Taekwoon kick himself, and pointed back the way they came. Sure enough, a moment later light seeped through the seams of the closed door below, and muffled voices could be heard on the other side. It was too faint to make out the words, but Taekwoon was sure he heard the sharp staccato of his escort’s voice and his mentor’s low timbre on the other side. 

Movement at his side caught his eye. The Avox was motioning with his hands, eyes latched onto his--a point towards the voices, a hand cupped behind one ear. 

“You knew they’d be out here,” Taekwoon whispered, and the other nodded with a tight-lipped smile. “But how did you know I was coming?”

The Avox’s mouth quirked (if Taekwoon didn’t know better he’d think he looked smug) and his hands started forming patterns, quick but precise--as if he were used to much faster but was slowing it down for his sake. Among them Taekwoon picked out a point at himself, then back the way they came, then a fist crossed over his chest ending with two fingers held up. Taekwoon’s brow furrowed. The last one looked familiar--he vaguely remembered people back home motioning to old Mr. Park, deafened by a sawmill explosion. He never learned (though now wished he had), but didn’t need it to know the answer. “Because I’m always there,” he ventured with a half-sigh, and--yes, the other’s smile was definitely smug this time.


	4. FOUR

Taekwoon wasn’t used to being the one who talked, and the Avox was quick to understand.  

They escaped to the roof every night now.  Taekwoon wasn’t sure what his excuse to himself was anymore, and found it hard to care.  The games were only a few short days away--there was no time to figure anything out, no need to wonder about what it meant for the future.  He knew he didn’t have one.  

Maybe it was all just selfish, a way to distract himself from his ever-darkening thoughts.  But each time the Avox stood beaming back at him (eyes sparkling, cheeks bunched up behind his hand) when Taekwoon opened his door to the soft tapping, and each time something flipflopped beneath his ribcage at the sight.

The Avox spoke with his hands, and his hands were never silent.  Their conversations were a blur of gestures with Taekwoon slowly repeating his interpretation, watching for the telltale eye-crinkling smile to light the other’s face each time he guessed right.  The boy was impossibly patient, all encouraging nods and fond smiles, even when one failed guessed followed another.  Only when his hands stilled would Taekwoon speak up on his own, prodding with a comment or question to get him going again.  

Even during the day when they couldn’t talk, when all eyes were on him and his skull ached with the endless stream of noise, the hands spoke more than words.  One hand squeezing his shoulder as the other brushed imaginary dust from whatever coat the stylist chose that day, fingers brushing against his knuckles (gripping his fork so tightly it trembled in his hand) as he set food on the table.  Taekwoon was always careful to hide his smile.  He didn’t want to get the other in trouble. 

But best of all was when they just sat in companionable silence on the roof each night, enjoying the peace, resting in the knowledge that neither demanded anything of the other.  At least that’s what Taekwoon hoped the other felt.  There were limits to what they could talk about, after all.  Too often the other’s smile would falter as he paused mid-sentence, pinwheeling at the edge of what he hoped to say before his shoulders slumped in defeat and he waved a dismissive hand.  Taekwoon would slip one of the hands tucked into his elbows out to gingerly pat his knee--he’d noticed the Avox seemed to like touch, however awkward it felt for Taekwoon in the moment.  And each time he was met with a sheepish smile (and ears tinted pink) before the Avox frowned in thought, then ventured on to something else.  It was slow going, and they had so little time.  Taekwoon tried not to think of how little time he had.

Bit by bit Taekwoon learned more about him.  He was a year younger than Taekwoon, loved sleeping and listening to music (rather, eavesdropping on it when he could), his hair had been black before the District 7 stylist team decided to dye the Avoxes to match the look they planned for their tributes.  Unlike Taekwoon he loved the night view, even pointing out his favorite splashes of color among the gaudy lights.  

But he never volunteered a word about where he came from, and Taekwoon didn’t allow himself to ask.  Yet the more he resisted, the more he wondered.  Who was he before his sentence?  What had he lost?  Did he leave family behind, like Taekwoon did?  Did he still think about them?  And most of all, what had he done to anger the Capitol enough to take his tongue and his freedom?

He wished he had something he could share in return, but his life had already been picked to the bone and laid bare for all the world to see, sanitized for a Capitol appetite.  The Avox asked about him anyway.  At first Taekwoon wondered if it was because he wasn’t able to watch the broadcasts, until he asked what District he was from (holding one finger at a time up to ten, then another two, before pointing at Taekwoon and tilting his head) and Taekwoon realized--he was giving him the right to share that about himself, or choose not to.  

So “seven” he muttered, surprising himself with the pride in his voice, surprising himself even more as he went on.  “It’s weird, here.  Without trees.  Never been away from them before.  It’s like…”  He trailed off, absently tugging his sleeves up to his knuckles and tucking them against his legs.  He was never good at metaphors.  Or talking.  He shrugged.  A faint pressure on one hand startled him, and he looked down to see the Avox’s calloused hand laid gently over his.

He glanced up at the cautious eyes watching his and felt his lips tip into a stiff smile.  His hand seemed to turn palm-up on its own accord beneath the others, and Taekwoon’s smile reached his eyes as he felt the Avox’s fingers intertwine with his.

The Avox, the Avox.  Taekwoon hated only knowing him as the Avox.   

That’s what the others called him--or any of the servants--in the same tone they’d use to name The Chair, The Rug, The Floor.  A piece of furniture, part of the scenery.  

An idea took root in his mind as he drifted to sleep that night, and when the next day came Taekwoon wished he could leave his training early for the first time.  

During dinner Taekwoon lifted a pen from his mentor’s pocket and, feeling as furtive and rebellious as if he’d robbed a storehouse, kept it hidden against his skin throughout the day.  That night when they met, he pressed them into the boy’s hands with a swell of pride.

A spark of panic flickered in his eyes and he shook his head violently.  Taekwoon didn’t miss the way every muscle in his body seemed to tense at once.  

“At least tell me your name.”  

The other didn’t look at him at first, eyes still fixed on the pen as he worried a lip between his teeth.  A long moment passed in silence before he gave a single, sharp nod, eyes flicking towards the doorway before snatching the pen out of Taekwoon’s hand. 

One by one, shaky characters took form on the paper before the Avox dropped the pen like it burned him and slipped away--but not before pressing the paper into Taekwoon’s hands.  He unfolded it slowly and pressed out the wrinkles.  

_ Wonsik _ .  


	5. FIVE

First place.  They’d ranked him first place.

Taekwoon stared, numb, at the screen while chaos broke out around him, half-expecting the number to morph into another before his eyes.  Competitive pride flared molten-hot in his chest until he felt he would burn up from the inside, but deep beneath was a cold core of fear.  He knew what it meant for him once they reached the arena.   

His promotion team was making such a racket (they seemed as conflicted about the results as he was) he wouldn’t be surprised if the walls caved in.  He couldn’t think.  Everyone was pushing and pulling, praising and scolding, and even his iciest stares didn’t earn him an inch of space.  He slipped away as soon as he could escape.  Yet as he stormed through the hallway, something warm and soft brushed his hand--Taekwoon was about to spin around and push away whoever tried to stop him from leaving when calloused fingers closed over his own to squeeze.  They were gone again so quickly he could have imagined it, but when he glanced behind him Wonsik stood statue-still by the wall, face blank, unfocused eyes straight ahead.  Taekwoon kept walking.

He barely had five minutes to himself, wasted pacing in circles in his room and wishing he had a punching bag to demolish.  Was he angry?  Proud?  Eager?   _Frightened?_  The door was sliding open and intrusive voices echoed off the walls as a thought welled up at the worst possible moment--that his family must have seen the broadcast too.  No time to process it, no time for answers before he was fished out and swept away to the stylists’ chair.  By the half-heard chatter there was yet another event to rush off to.  

By the time they returned, Taekwoon’s ears were ringing and patches of light flashed behind his eyelids every time he blinked.  Dinner dragged itself along like a dying thing.  Over the past week his team had slowly given up trying to drag conversation out of him at their meals, but were now back at it in full force.  He looked up only once or twice, but Wonsik was nowhere in sight.

He left his dinner half-eaten, shoving himself to his feet and ignoring the scolding of his mentor as he slouched away, only looking back to cast a glance towards the Avoxes by the door--both unfamiliar.  His stomach sank.

He had just reached his doorway when a sound halted him in his tracks--faint, delicate, like the soft chirping of a bird in the branches.  It was too sudden, too unexpected, and a lump caught in his throat that he angrily swallowed away.  Taekwoon swatted at the door sensor and barely waited for it to slide open before storming forward--

It slid shut behind him by the time he realized the light was already on.  

Not the lights---the projectors.  The simulation.  The false, _loathsome_ facade of a forest stretching as far as the eye could see.  And suddenly he was wheezing, throat clenched tight around his windpipe, eyes hot and stinging.  A noise escaped unbidden; he was too angry to allow to be a sob--instead a low, strangled wail welled quavering from his lungs, and he spun, thoughtless, ramming his knuckles into the wall.  A patch of pristine night sky rippled beneath his bruising fist.  In the corner of his wet-blurred vision he caught a glimpse of the remote that controlled the projections; Taekwoon snatched it up in one shaking fist and hurled it across the room.  It hit with a satisfying _crack_ he could feel in his bones, and a short, sharp sound of surprise echoed with it.  Taekwoon froze and spun--and there was Wonsik, eyes round and mouth wide (Taekwoon reflexively glanced away, stomach tightening).  The other remote hung limply from one trembling hand.

“Sorry,” he grit out.  He should feel guilty, should feel _something_ , but the ebb of confused rage left nothing in its wake.  Wonsik lowered his eyes as he set the remote aside, slipping into the blank servants’ posture in a blink.

His stomach twisted again.  “Did you--”  Taekwoon paused, swallowing back the roughness in his voice before continuing, “Did you do this?”

Wonsik nodded, shoulders stiffening, eyes still wide and nervous.  

“Why?”

He felt foolish, asking a question he knew would be difficult to answer, but Wonsik met his gaze, brow furrowing.  He held up seven fingers, then gestured to him.

A pause.  “You knew I’m from District Seven.”  A dumb thing to say.  Everyone did.  And they thought this image would comfort him, just like Wonsik did now.

There were no words to describe how vast the difference seemed.

Guilt and gratitude welled slowly in him, and Taekwoon didn’t bother to fight it.  He trudged to his bed and slumped to sit on the edge.  He patted the blanket beside him.  

Wonsik hesitated, glancing at the doorway, before slipping to sit next to him.  

“What District are you from?” asked Taekwoon.

The other brightened before holding up eight fingers.  The Textiles District.  

“You didn’t have many trees there, did you?”  He’d never been to Eight, but the propaganda videos for their tributes showed glimpses--cherry-picked and carefully-edited as they were, it still looked bleak and lifeless, rows upon rows of dead brick buildings and smokestacks clogging the skies.  

Wonsik shook his head.  He turned, craning his neck to look around the panorama around him.  What seemed insultingly, devastatingly fake to Taekwoon must have been a wonder to him.

“They’re...nice.”  Why was the only time words came easily to him was when he was guessing Wonsik’s?  “Wish you could see real ones.  They're nothing like these.”  He hated the way his voice grew thick as he talked, but Wonsik’s fingers were winding into his again and he couldn’t quite regret it.  

It was dangerous, sitting here like this, with the evening still young and the entire household wide awake, but Taekwoon gripped back until Wonsik grunted in discomfort and pried his hand from his grasp to wrap an arm around his shoulders.  

Something broke.  The weight of weeks of stoic facades and homesickness and fear strangled into anger collapsed all at once and he was he was drowning, drifting--no tears came, but every bone in his body seemed to dissolve at once and he slumped into the half-embrace, barely propping himself up with a hand on Wonsik’s knee.  While each breath was a struggle to draw before, now they came too fast, tripping over one another until his head spun and swam.  Warm arms closed around him and he closed his eyes, striving to focus on the heartbeat against his ear.  A hand (still trembling slightly) smoothed up and down his back, and he tried to rein in his frantic breaths to match its gentle rhythm.  

“Shhhhh.”  The breath whispered against his ear as the hand slid up to card through his stiff-styled hair.  Taekwoon nodded, just barely.  His breathing had evened out and the horrible weight on his chest was gone, but he didn’t want to move.  And then the light huff of breath against his forehead became the press of lips.

It had been so faint that he could have imagined it, but it was enough to kindle heat in his face and a (confusing) spark in his chest and suddenly everything made sense--sneaking out every night to see him, the flutter beneath his ribs each time he gave that cute smile that made his eyes sparkle, the ache that grew in his stomach whenever he was away.  It all made sense; it was the only thing that made sense.  Taekwoon sat up, adrenaline shooting through his limbs, and before Wonsik could retreat kissed him full on the lips.

The startled sound Wonsik let out quickly turned to a pleased hum--Taekwoon realized with a jolt that the first kiss was likely just meant as comfort, like a child being tucked in to rest, but then hands were cupping his face and rough thumbs smoothed over his cheeks and a quiet but giddy chuckle rumbled from Wonsik’s chest.   

Taekwoon moved his lips slowly, savoring the feeling of Wonsik’s mouth against his, but when he tried to deepen the kiss was halted by the sudden pressure of hands against his collarbones.  When he pulled back, eyes searching, the other was stiff and pale--eyes lowered and glassy, lips pressed to a thin line as he forced shallow breaths through his nose.  

“I-I’m sorry,” Taekwoon mumbled.  Red climbed in his cheeks and he began to pull away, but the grip on his shoulders turned him back.  Wonsik caught his gaze before shaking his head, tension fading from his face as he curled his fingers around the back of Taekwoon’s head and pulled him forward.  Their foreheads bumped before he guided Taekwoon’s lips to the corner of his own mouth.  Taekwoon could feel him grin against his cheek as he ran his fingers through his hair.  

Again Taekwoon kissed him, just at the edge of his lips, and felt the huff of a giggle against his cheek before he slid an inch to the side and kissed him again.  And then down slightly just above his jawline.  And again, right at the hard angle of his jaw.  Warmth bloomed in his chest at the faint hum of approval in his ear.  If Wonsik didn’t like being kissed on the mouth, he would kiss him everywhere else.

The hand in his hair tightened as Wonsik turned his face in to press his mouth to Taekwoon’s cheek: the same tight-lipped kiss, chaste and innocent; but the hand roving up beneath his shirt was anything but.


	6. SIX

The night before the Games was noisier than ever, but Taekwoon’s mind was shuttered, silent as a tomb.  He’d made his peace already, dry-sobbing onto Wonsik’s shoulder, and now there was nothing left but to face his fate.  

The last round of interviews came and went.  Taekwoon sat stony and silent through them all.  His refusal to speak was nothing new, and the host had gotten quite good at fumbling along by herself during the one-sided interviews--she even got the crowd cheering for him and shouting his name during some prattle about his ranking.  It fell on deaf ears.  If she noticed the fire in his eyes cooled to ash, it never came up before they were ushering him off the stage to make way for a career tribute.  “The Silent Killer from the Forests!” the announcer bellowed for the last time.

He could feel his mentor’s heavy gaze on him as he climbed down the stage.  “It’ll have to do.”  Taekwoon barely made out the words, a deep rumble beneath the high-pitched shrieks of the crowd, and for the first time he stared defiantly back.  The other stood with his hands in his pockets, looking as out-of-place in his white suit and sparkling bow-tie as ever, but the eyes on him were...sad?  Taekwoon jerked his gaze away to stare straight ahead as he stormed off to the waiting room.

\--

There was nothing magical about the rooftop view when he was alone.  He knew Wonsik probably couldn’t get away tonight, not with so much to prepare for the next day, but there was nothing better to do.  If anyone asked, he was clearing his mind for the slaughter tomorrow.  The entire Capitol had thrown itself into one last celebratory frenzy--the night sky was on fire, lit by a thousand exploding fireworks, with the city lights below flaring ten times as brilliant.  Without Wonsik’s shining eyes or insistent tugs on his sleeve to point out something he found beautiful, all Taekwoon could think was that he hadn’t seen the stars in weeks.  Not since he left home.  What would Wonsik’s face look like if he could see stars instead of this light pollution?   

“Enjoying the view?”  

The deep voice set every hair on edge.  Taekwoon’s fingers curled to dig crescents into his arms.  “No,” he snapped, barely loud enough to hear over the crackling of fireworks.  They must have masked his mentor’s footsteps, too--he should have heard him before he made it halfway up the stairs.  Taekwoon set his jaw, stare boring into the wall as he waited for the other to scold him for it.

Instead there was a quiet rustling as the man sat next to him, and Taekwoon’s glare could have melted holes in the wall.  A long moment passed.  Normally Taekwoon would have relished the silence (or what was left of it with the racket down below), but now it just unnerved him.  He was contemplating heading back downstairs when the other spoke.  

“You should have made alliances.”

Good.  Scolding was familiar.  So was arguing.  Taekwoon slouched over his knees, scowling.  “I don’t need to befriend people I’m going to kill.”  

The man heaved a long sigh, so resigned Taekwoon dared to hope he’d spoken his fill, but no such luck.  “If you haven’t listened to anything I’ve said so far, listen to that.  You can’t win by--”

“Think I haven’t watched the Games before?” Taekwoon cut in, voice quiet still but every word drenched in venom.  “You do too well, they send monsters at you.  Dry up your water sources.  I don’t know, make a volcano pop up under your feet.”  It was more words than he’d said to him in the past week, and by his sharply raised brows the other was just as surprised as Taekwoon.

“You need to survive.”

“What would you care about that?”

“Do you need me to care?  If you don’t want to do it for me, do it for your family--” (Taekwoon balled his hand into a fist, wondering how much trouble he’d get in if he attacked a mentor) “--or your district...hell, do it for that Avox you’ve been sneaking around with.  --Sit down, I haven’t told anyone.  You’re not the only one who can’t sleep at night.”

“What do you want?” Taekwoon snarled.  His voice now echoed in the glass casement, smothering even the shrieking fireworks, but he didn’t care.  He whipped his head around to level his stare at the other, only to be met by the same weary, leaden gaze as before.

Taekwoon’s shout echoed two, three times before the man answered.  “What else?  I want you to _win_ \--”

A voice drifted up the stairwell, and for the first time Taekwoon was glad to hear his escort’s voice call out.  “Yongguk?  Are you up there?”  His mentor didn’t answer, but footsteps were quick to follow the echoes.  They stopped suddenly, just short of the entrance.

“Just talking, Jaehwan.”

A doubtful hum.  “Okay…”   _You’re wasting your time_ went unsaid, but Taekwoon could practically hear the words ringing in his ears.  “It’s late, shouldn’t you be coming down?  Don’t forget about tomorrow.”  At that Taekwoon almost laughed, and couldn’t hold back a quiet snort--of course, a long day for his mentor tomorrow, sitting in the stands and chatting with officials, or whatever it was mentors did while their charges slaughtered each other on the screens above.  So tiring, surely.  

Of course, maybe his escort was simply too scared to address him directly.  For all the talking he did, it was rarely to him.

“I know, I’m coming.  You should try to get some sleep, too,” the man added as he rose.  

\--

Sleep.  He should sleep.  He lingered out of sheer stubbornness for a few minutes, but the sanctuary had been invaded, and what little appeal the rooftop held was gone.  Every thought he tried to keep at bay came flooding back--his support team wouldn’t be the only ones watching the screens tomorrow.  He hoped his family wouldn’t cry too much when they watched him die.  He hoped Mother would cover his sisters’ eyes.  With a force of will that drained him to the core he shoved the thoughts back.  His head swam.  He waited, fireworks ringing dull and distant in his ears, just long enough so no one could say he followed his mentor’s advice before dragging himself down the stairs.  

As he reached his room, he knew something was off.  The sound of his bare feet on the carpet was oddly muffled, the beep of the door sliding open barely heard at all.  By the time he lowered his body to the bed, it felt like it belonged to him.  He was watching someone else behind his eyes--foreign limbs draping long and careless over the side, a stranger’s hands curling white-knuckled into the sheets.  A stranger who just sat and stared glassy-eyed at the floor, breath loud and reedy until it diminished to faint puffs that came too shallow, too far between.  

He had come here to do something.  Sleep.  He came to sleep.  The body didn’t move.  It should, it was easy.  Get up, undress, lie down and rest.  Nothing happened.  The limbs stayed splayed out in front of him, the dark plush carpet stayed fixed in his vision.  

A strange sensation grew at his back (his? it was his).  A faint but firm pressure between his shoulderblades, more insistent and immediate than the usual dull ache from training too hard.  It moved.   Faint finger-taps up his spine to the base of his neck, then inch by inch down again.  Air moved through his lungs.  Circles, now, slow and deliberate over shoulderblades, down the hunch of his back.  The sheets were cool and soft against his hands as feeling crept reluctantly back.  They left lines in his palms where he gripped too hard.  He gulped a deep breath into neglected lungs and the hand on his back (of course it was a hand) paused.  It slid back to his shoulder and gave one short, sharp squeeze.

The pent-up breath wheezed out all at once.  “Wonsik.”  A hum behind his ear, low and fond, and the hands kept moving--slow, practiced, as if they’d done it a hundred times before.  Perhaps they had.  

The weight on the bed shifted.  His eyes burned when he blinked them, and Taekwoon wondered how much time had passed.  But now a pair of slim white boots moved into his field of vision Wonsik was crouching in front of him, eyes searching until they caught his gaze, lips curling into a soft smile when he succeeded.  Taekwoon tried to return it but his face felt too numb to move.  As if reading his intention Wonsik’s smile turned wide and warm before he reached to touch a pair of fingers to his chin; then slow and cautious, guided his chin to follow him as he stood.  Taekwoon forced his eyes to move, his neck to unlock.  With one last force of effort, he took a deep breath and felt the last of the unnerving numbness drift away.  He was himself, he was here, as little as he wanted to be--  And so was Wonsik.  

“You’re here,” he said aloud, not sure if he meant to.  Did he sneak away?  Light still crept under the door from the hall outside.  As if reading his thoughts, Wonsik smiled sadly and shook his head before motioning with his hand--two fingers touched to his lips, then arm lowered palm-out.  Asking him if he needed anything.  The only communication Avoxes were allowed to make.  

His stomach clenched at the formality.  “This is the last time I’m gonna see you,” Taekwoon heard himself say.  It felt so cliche, like he was watching the last scene of one of his escort’s sappy romance movies--the lovers would weep and sob and throw their arms around each other and profess their love one last time in words too poetic for him to bother understanding.  But there was no swelling music, no heartfelt confessions.  Just a quiet cold ache in his chest that froze every word in his throat.  But Wonsik didn’t need words.  He lifted a hand to brush rough fingers over Taekwoon’s cheek, eyes soft before his brow ridged in a sudden frown.  Pulling back so suddenly Taekwoon wondered if he was angry, Wonsik shook his head in one sharp jerk and yanked his thumb across his throat.  He stepped back, stern facade slipping, and nodded once.

“Not the last time…?” Taekwoon ventured out of habit.  “I’ll win and come back.”  It was a lie, and sounded disgusting on his tongue, but Wonsik beamed--watery, trembling lip not hidden by the usual hand over his mouth--and nodded again.  

Movement stirred outside and Wonsik turned away, eyes wet and smile fading.  But with one quick glance at the door Taekwoon closed the distance between them and kissed him on the cheek, just at the corner of his lips where he liked it most.  “I’ll come back.”

\--

The glass chute waited at his back waited like a mouth.  He knew, theoretically, that it led to the arena floor somewhere above--but as the back of his neck prickled and sweat beaded at his spine, it felt like an open coffin.  

People were moving in front of him, nothing more than smears of violent colors in front of his eyes (and none of them were Wonsik).  His fingers twitched.  He should be holding something.  A club, a gun, that fencing sword he’d gotten so good at.  But they started with nothing but the clothes on their backs: sturdy denim pants and a waterproof jacket lined with fleece.  He vaguely remembered Yongguk saying this meant a cold and wet arena.  The stylist leaned forward and tucked a scrap of paper into the seam in his collar.  

“Your token,” he said, brow furrowing.  Taekwoon’s chest tightened even as his face remained stony.  It was all he could do not to unfold the paper to look at the shaky writing.  But as he stepped back into the chute, he couldn’t stop a hand from brushing over the seam, feeling the crinkle of precious paper inside the cloth.

“I’ll come back,” he said aloud, barely a breath, and the lift rose.


	7. EPILOGUE

Standing still had never been so hard.  

He’d long since grown used to the Capitol’s frantic, garish energy--every moment as bright and hectic as a fever dream, one person’s heaven and another’s technicolor hell.  He’d adapted to it, grown used to being the monochrome lifeblood pumping through drugged and diseased vein--draped in white and gray, as silent as the grave they’d barely escaped (and some wished they hadn’t).

Maybe he’d felt like that once, in the early days he never allowed himself to think about anymore, but now-- _ now _ \--!  He’d never felt so alive, every hair standing on end and every nerve tingling and every beat of his pulse hammering like thunder between his ears.  In the very beating, bloated heart of the Capitol’s celebrations it was too much.  The citizens were cheering and fighting and passing out left and right behind the wall of Avoxes, a barrage of noise pressing relentlessly against his eardrums. Normally he’d stand cringing and deafened, senses overwhelmed by the assault (and the thought of the mess to clean up after).  The first time was such an ordeal he was almost relieved to find himself assigned to the Tunnels during the next year’s celebration, yet now Wonsik trembled with the urge to join them, to fling himself into the madness and shout and cheer with his stolen voice and something,  _ something _ other than standing here like the lifeless piece of scenery they saw him as.  But more than anything was the urge to tear mindlessly down through the twin rows of white and gray, down to the hovercraft waiting still (too still) at the end.  And pry the fucking door off its hinges with his fingertips if he had to.  

A feeble breath puffed against the inside of his veil.  Taekwoon was okay, had to be okay.  There would be no celebrations if he weren’t.  The Capitol would piece his corpse back together and resurrect it before letting the Games end without a victor.  But still he stood shaking, each earsplitting second that crept by nothing short of torture.

It was taking so long.  Resurrection or not, they were definitely piecing something back together.  Wonsik blinked quickly--he was a statue, he was scenery, only his eyes showed beneath the veils and robes and it wouldn’t do to let them get wet.

The creak of a metal door, a sudden hush that lasted half a breath.

“The Silent Killer from the Forests, the Lion hungry for blood, OUR VICTOR OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH HUNGER GAMES,  _ Jung Taekwoon! _ ”

The roar that followed was like a hammer to the sternum, but Wonsik took the frenzied moment to turn his head just enough to peer straining down the column.  The victor was flanked by his team and half a dozen guards but Wonsik could still see him slowly making his way down the path.  Was that a limp?  A slightly different-colored patch of skin?  Were his shoulders that stiff and straight before, or were they straighter?  He didn’t realized he stared too long until a gentle nudge from the boy next to him jerked his gaze straight ahead again (lucky for him, another Avox and not a Peacekeeper).

The cheers died down only to roll along with the procession like a wave--nearer and nearer until finally,  _ finally _ Wonsik could see him without turning his head--eyes glazed and downturned, staring out from behind a mask of makeup hiding both familiar features and new scars.  The lopsided pace was painfully obvious, now, bringing him closer bit by bit--  And now he was close enough to touch, close enough that if Taekwoon just turned... 

Adrenaline surging, Wonsik reached out a shaky hand.

For a sparse moment, fingertips brushed against skin smooth and glossy against rough callouses, cold as ice to the touch.

Cold as  _ metal _ .

Wonsik didn’t know how good Capitol prosthetics were, whether they let you feel or not.  If someone lost a hand or a foot in the textile mills back home, they were lucky for a piece of wood to strap over the stump.  But whether Taekwoon felt it or Taekwoon just  _ knew _ , he was turning, looking up…a gaze hazy and unfocused lifted up, still leaden with sedatives and smothered with painkillers.  

But when Wonsik caught his gaze something glinted in his eyes and they sharpened, and for a splintered second he saw  _ Taekwoon _ staring back, shattered and broken but  _ alive _ , and something in Wonsik’s chest melted even as he struggled to swallow.

The procession didn’t halt.   _ You came back _ Wonsik mouthed behind the veil as they went on, and didn’t doubt for a second that Taekwoon heard him.


End file.
